Or rockie Avon, or of fedgie Lee,

Or coaly Tine, or ancient hallowed Dee,

Or Humber loud that keeps the Scythians Name,
Or Medway fmooth, or royal tow'red Thame.
The rest was Profe.

E

The PASSION.

I.

RE-while of Mufick, and Ethereal mirth,

Wherewith the stage of Air and Earth did ring,

And joyous news of heav'nly Infant's birth,

My Mufe with Angels did divide to fing;

But headlong joy is ever on the wing,

In wintry folftice like the shorten'd light,'

Soon swallow'd up in dark and long out-living night.

II.

For now to forrow muft I tune my song,

And fet my Harp to notes of faddeft wo,

Which on our dearest Lord did feize ere-long,

Dangers, and fnares, and wrongs, and worse than so,

Which he for us did freely undergo.

Moft

Moft perfect Heroe, try'd in heaviest plight

Of labours huge and hard, too hard for human wight. III.

He fov'raign Priest stooping his regal head

That dropt with odorous oil down his fair eyes,
Poor fleshly Tabernacle entered,

His ftarry front low-roof beneath the skies;
O what a mask was there, what a disguise!

Yet more; the stroke of death he must abide, Then lies him meekly down faft by his Brethrens fide. IV.

These latter scenes confine my roving verse,
To this Horizon is my Phabus bound:
His Godlike acts, and his temptations fierce,
And former fufferings, otherwhere are found:
Loud o'er the reft Cremona's Trump doth found;
Me fofter airs befit, and fofter strings

Of Lute, or Viol ftill, more apt for mournful things.

V.

Befriend me Night, best Patroness of grief,
Over the Pole thy thickeft mantle throw,
And work my flatter'd fancy to belief,

That Heav'n and Earth are colour'd with my wo;

My forrows are too dark for day to know:

The leaves fhould all be black whereon I write, And letters where my tears have washt a wannish white. VI.

See fee the Chariot, and those rushing wheels,
That whirl'd the Prophet up at Chebar flood,
My spirit fome transporting Cherub feels,

To bear me where the Towers of Salem ftood,
Once glorious Towers, now funk in guiltless blood;
There doth my Soul in holy vifion fit

In pensive trance, and anguish, and ecftatick fit.

Mine

eye

VII.

hath found that fad Sepulchral rock

That was the Casket of Heav'n's richest store;

feeble hands

And here though grief my
up lock,
Yet on the foftned Quarry would I score
My plaining verse as lively as before;

For fure fo well inftructed are my tears,

That they would fitly fall in order'd Characters.
VIII.

Or fhould I thence hurried on viewless wing,
Take up a weeping on the Mountains wild,
The gentle neighbourhood of grove and spring
Would foon unbofom all their Echoes mild,
And I (for grief is easily beguil'd)

Might think th' infection of my forrows loud, Had got a race of mourners on fome pregnant cloud.

This Subject the Author finding to be above the years he had, when he wrote it, and nothing fatisfy'd with what was begun, left it unfinisht.

FL

LY envious Time, 'till thou run out thy race,
Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours,
Whose speed is but the heavy Plummets pace;
And glut thy felf with what thy womb devours,
Which is no more than what is falfe and vain,
And merely mortal drofs;

So little is our lofs,

So little is thy gain.

For when as each thing bad thou hast entomb'd,
And laft of all thy greedy self confum'd,
Then long Eternity shall greet our bliss
With an individual kiss;

And Joy fhall overtake us as a flood,
When every thing that is fincerely good,

And

And perfectly divine,

With Truth, and Peace, and Love fhall ever fhine

About the fupreme Throne

Of him, t'whose happy-making fight alone,

When once our Heav'nly-guided Soul fhall climb,

Then, all this Earthy grofnefs quit

Attir'd with Stars, we fhall for ever fit,

Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee,

O Time.

Y

Upon the CIRCUMCISION.

E flaming Powers, and winged Warriors bright That erft with Mufick, and triumphant Song, First heard by happy watchful Shepherds ear, So fweetly fung your Joy the Clouds along Through the soft silence of the list'ning night; Now mourn, and if sad share with us to bear

Your fiery effence can distil no tear,

Burn in your fighs, and borrow

Seas wept from our deep forrow:

He who with all Heav'n's heraldry whilear
Enter'd the World, now bleeds to give us eafe;